Killing Time
by mercurialThoth
Summary: Just a few one-shots about how the Avengers kill time with one another when nobody else-they think-is watching. Possibly Black Widow and Hawkeye-centric (but there are more characters than those in the tags!) This is still a work in progress, and may have more chapters added to it in the future, providing ideas continue to come to me. Please read! This summary may not do justice!
1. Chapter 1

** Killing Time**

He was shocked.

He was flabbergasted.

He just could not believe it.

"Stop making those faces, Barton!" she finally snapped at him as he sat across from her at the table. They were the only two in the room, the rest of Fury's agents still as late as ever. In all fairness though, it could hardly be called late, as the meeting was still for another two hours. He just grew tired of waiting and picked the lock, much to her annoyance. However, her disapproval did not stop him from running around the wide room as he had once had the compulsion to do, and neither did it stop her from waiting in the room with him when he finally chose a seat. But then their closeness had led to a conversation, which led to…

"I can't get over it, Nat," he said, putting his head into both hands as he leaned both elbows on the table. "All these years…and you've never _ever_…?"

"How in the world can you find it unbelievable?" she demanded.

"It just seems like something you would have done," he returned with a shrug of his shoulders. "Everyone has done it. Everyone. Don't you ever want to—?"

"For what?" she interrupted. "What is so great about it that _I_ should do it, Barton?"

He grinned slowly at her and she frowned in response. She slowly leaned forward, putting both elbows on the table to hold her head as she returned his stare.

"…Clint, if you don't stop giving me those looks, you'll regret it."

"How much, though?" he asked, but he looked away as he asked, leaning back in his chair as he looked around the room. It was rather plain and boring, as were most rooms in SHIELD. The dominate colours were grey, blue, white. Nothing to write home about, he thought inwardly. Considering how much room the desk and chairs took up, it was almost a waste that the gigantic space was even for meetings.

It should have mats on the floor for gymnastics, he decided. He glanced over at her, to find she had gone back to sitting straight in her chair, arms folded across her chest as she waited, and her gaze currently on the clock over the door. Her eyes left the clock to meet his, and he grinned at her.

"I wasn't giving you a look," he said in response to her scowl. "But I still can't believe it."

"Oh for the love of…" She sent a line of words directed at him in Russian that were hardly flattering. Then she stood, and started to walk around the table towards him.

He tensed, not entirely sure what her plan was, but when she came to a halt before him and folded her arms, gaze more calculating than deadly, he knew.

"No one had better walk in on us," she said, giving him a look that told him quite clearly what would happen if _that _scenario played out. "Or hear us."

"I locked the door behind us," he answered, giving her a cheeky grin. "And all these rooms are soundproofed. Didn't I tell you there was enough room in here if you ever wanted to—"

"I know, Barton, I know," she sighed. "Well, where do we even start?"

"Here."

He turned his back to her, opening his arms slighter, bending his knees a little. For a long time, there was nothing, and he started to turn around, but then she tentatively climbed onto his back, arms looping around his neck. He straightened up, holding onto her legs.

"Ready?" he asked. Before she could even reply, he took off.

"Watch it, Barton! If you make us crash I'll—!"

"Huh? What did you say? Faster?"

It was hard to deny the strange amusement that came from a secret piggyback ride, and eventually giggling and laughter was filling the room when he insisted on running at full speed at the wall before veering off, almost throwing himself off balance in the process.

"WHoa—!"

"Barton I swear if you drop me—!" She clung to him for dear life, loving every second of it. "Look out!"

"Faster, faster!" he chanted, as if she was the one egging him on. It felt good to her her laugh freely for once, and it made him chuckle in response. He almost tipped sideways, sending both of them crashing to the floor for a second time. They were both giggling uncontrollably-

KNOCK KNOCK

Abruptly they fell silent. He came to a halt, letting her down quietly. They stood silently next to one another, neither going to the door to unlock it. There was another knock, and they both looked at one another, still not moving.

"Soundproofed," he whispered. "They couldn't have heard anything. Maybe they're lost?"

"Shh."

Go away, she thought mentally. The last thing she wanted was their secret to be revealed. Because of course, eyebrows would be raised when it was revealed the two of them were in a locked room, their faces flushed...

The stranger knocked again.

"We can invite them to join," he said quietly.

"No."

"Could be fun. It could be Coulson. Heh! Could be Fury." He started to giggle despite himself, already picturing it in his head. Fury running around with Nat hanging on for dear life. Coulson carrying him around, all of them freezing when they heard a knock on the door… He laughed aloud at that, earning an elbow in the ribs.

"No more knocking," she said, going back to the table to sit down. He bent his knees, looking at her over his shoulder, wiggling his arms to show he was at the ready.

"What? No more ride?"

"No."

"They couldn't have heard anything," he said, but when she shook her head he went back to sit opposite of her. He spun around in his chair once, stopping his momentum by grasping onto the table. He grinned at her. "But now, if anyone asks, you can say you've done it."

She snorted. "Who do you think will ever ask about_ that_?"

"You never know. Could come up in conversation…"

"You're the only one who would ask something like that. 'Have you ever had a piggyback ride'…ridiculous! Who would ever think of such a thing?" She raised an eyebrow at him, daring him to speak more on the subject, considering the entire event already closed and behind them now that it had been interrupted. Apparently, he did not share the same sentiments.

"Admit it, Nat," he said cheerfully, rocking back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head. "It's just the two of us; you can say it aloud. It was fun. Just like I said it would be."

"I'll admit nothing."

"I dare you. Next person who comes in, you ask for a piggyback ride."

"Ha! No."

"What's the matter, Black Widow?" he asked teasingly. "Afraid they'll…_refuse?"_

She looked at him shrewdly, her face curiously blank. Then, before he had time to take back his words, she shoved the table towards him, knocking him off balance when it hit his midsection.

"Oof!"

He toppled backwards out of sight. There was a horrendous crack and a grunt of pain.

"Clint!"

She was by his side before he even realized he had fallen. He was shaking his head, pushing himself up onto his elbow, completely unharmed. She took in a breath of relief, looking over at the broken chair he had been sitting in moments ago. He turned his head to look at it, sighing when he saw the damage.

"Oh crap. Fury's not going to like that…"

* * *

"Sir…" Hill did not look as though she knew what to make of what she was seeing on the security feed. "Aren't you going to tell them one of these days that there are cameras in that room?"

"Do you want to be the one to tell Hawkeye and the Black Widow we can see everything they do in there?" asked the Director, leaning back in his chair as he looked at the camera feed only he and his second in command could view from the security of his office. "Besides. They already know. They just don't give a damn."

"They do, sir?" Hill sounded doubtful, and then decided it was best if she feigned ignorance of the whole affair. "Well...if you say so, sir."

The Director frowned as Barton and Natasha tried to piece back together the broken chair before shoving it as far under the table as they could, resuming their seats as if nothing had happened, Barton whistling nonchalantly as he spun around in his new chair, seeing how fast he could go. Within moments, he had Natasha doing the same. Barton toppled off his chair, resulting in laughter in Natasha.

On second thought, the Director mused, maybe they don't.

But _I _won't be the one to tell them.


	2. Chapter 2

**Killing Time # 2**

It was missing something.

But what…?

His bare hands, turning pink from prolonged contact with the snow, were beginning to sting a little—but he was not quite ready to give up on his creation just yet.

"Why don't you wait inside, Barton?"

He looked over his shoulder when the familiar voice spoke to find she was watching him. Natasha Romanova leaned against the entrance of the Quinjet nonchalantly, hands in her pockets and collar raised to protect against the cold wind. Patches of pink colored both their cheeks, and his nose was beginning to run, but he shrugged as if this meant nothing to him.

"I like the weather."

"You?" she sounded amused. "Since when?" She scuffed the top of the fallen snow with her boot. The loose powder glinted dazzlingly under the sun, like a thousand shards of glass. "Some of us still remember that case of 'frostbite' in Lithuania, Barton. They were barely even pink—"

"Hey! You and Coulson had no idea what you were talking about. I distinctly recall my toes turning _purple_—"

"You were asking us to boil hot water."

"And if I recall, neither of you did," he replied. "But I forgive you. And anyway…I do like snow…since—now!" He moved out of the way, gesturing down at his creation in the snow.

"What do you think, Nat?"

She stared in silence at the mini snowman on the ground, no larger than foot. It had a cracked pencil for its arms and two misshapen pebbles for staring eyes, and a tangled mop of dirty yarn for hair. It was, to put it simply, the ugliest thing she had ever seen.

"I'm thinking of calling her…Natasha!"

"That thing?" Natasha raised an eyebrow. She looked less than pleased. "I'm flattered."

"I knew you would be. Come on!" He got to his feet, gesturing at the snow that surrounded the Quinjet. "There's so much of it! You've always loved snow, and now there's enough for both of us to build anything."

He turned away from her and ran out into the snow, turning around to face her before throwing himself down into the snow. She raised an eyebrow at him as he started to flail his arms and legs to make a snow angel.

"_Do you want to build a snowman_?" he sang. "Come on, Nat!"

"You? Quoting a song from Frozen? I'm surprised, Barton."

"I have kids who watch all that junk," he replied, pausing in his motions to raise himself up onto an elbow. A smirk was on his face. "But…how do _you _know about that movie, Black Widow?"

"I…must have seen that quote somewhere—" she started, but he was already grinning.

"Uh-huh. Somebody here has watched _Frozen~_" He sang. "_Just wait until I tell the others_…"

She gave him a look, all amusement fading from her face. He immediately stopped singing, even though the smile remained on his face.

"But really, Nat. With all this running around looking for the scepter—fighting bad guys, cleaning up messes—it starts to really suck after awhile. We haven't had any fun in awhile. Like we used to."

"There was a time when you used to think running after bad guys was fun," she remarked.

"Well I'm obviously getting too old for this then," he sighed as he sat up. His smile slipped, and gave her his best puppy-dog look. "So will you join me?"

She hesitated, looking at the sparkling snow at her feet. Then, giving a cursory glance around the area to make sure they were indeed alone for the time being, she gave sigh and a nod of her head.

Barton grinned and started to gather up snow into a ball, preparing to roll it across the field—

Only to feel a cold whap on the back of his head.

He turned around slowly, staring at the red-haired woman who wore a guiltless look on her face.

"Natasha Romanov," he said. "Did_ you _just…?"

"I have no idea what you are talking about," she said.

But the smile gave her away.

* * *

"No wonder our enemies can't take us seriously," Tony remarked to Bruce, Steve, and Thor as the four went towards the Quinjet, yet to be seen by the two waiting for their arrival. Tony had automatically fallen into step between Bruce and Steve, Thor lagging behind them.

He was the first to see Natasha take a snowball right to the face from the archer. Clint was already running, laughing until a well-placed snowball caught him on the back of the neck. He danced around, trying to get at the ice sliding down his shirt as she looked on and laughed.

"They're just blowing off some extra energy," Steve said with a shrug, leaning down to pick up a handful of snow in his bare hand. Bruce took it from him, patting it into a small ball.

"Nothing wrong with that, is there?" Bruce asked Stark.

"Our master assassin and ranger just became mere puppies in the snow," Tony remarked. "If I was one of our enemies _I_ wouldn't take us seriously."

"I don't think any is going to see them up here except for us, Tony."

"Maybe it makes them feel good, Tony," Bruce suggested. "Run around, throw some snowballs…wouldn't that make you feel better?"

"Tch. Yeah, that's exactly what I want. A ball of snow in the face," Tony snorted. He started to open his mouth to say more when a small snowball struck him on the forehead. He scowled at Banner as melting snow dripped off his face, but Bruce just gave him a half-smile.

"What? You don't feel better?"

"Oh, I see how things are, Doctor," Tony muttered. He stuck his hands into his pockets and continued walking, giving Bruce a suspicious glance now and then.

"So…you mean to tell me throwing snow at someone is a sign of affection?" Thor asked in genuine confusion. "But…it is cold and bitter!"

"There's nothing like making someone uncomfortable to make them really at ease with you," Tony muttered as he surreptitiously began to form a small ball of snow in his palm when Bruce was not looking.

"No, see—he's wrong, you can't just go around making people uncomfortable," Bruce warned Thor, half turning to face the large man. "If you want to throw something at someone, maybe just do it to people who know you so they don't call the cops—"

A snowball to the back of the head cut him off. He turned around to see Tony whistling nonchalantly. Frowning, he cut off his conversation with the god to catch up with the man who was now walking a little faster.

"Hmm…" Thor fell back behind the two, watching their retreating backs as he considered their words. Steve looked up at the god as he walked alongside him, an intriguing thought suddenly coming to mind.

"Hey Thor…"

"Yes?"

"You know, I think they're trying to tell you something…"

"You do?"

"Yeah. And here's what I think you ought to do..."

* * *

"Where's the suit?" Tony asked as he and Bruce approached Barton and Romanova. The latter two were casually waiting outside of the Quinjet, Barton not bothering to hide the fact he had been in the snowball fight while Natasha somehow managed to look as unflappable as always, her hands in her pockets, no trace of snow on her person at all.

"It's inside," Barton said, brushing his hair off with one hand. "You need to tote around extra if you keep on breaking them, you know."

"Yeah, I'm working on it, Legolas," Tony said, giving the archer a pat on the shoulder. "So, we're all here? Let's go."

"Wait, where's—" Bruce turned to see where Thor and Steve had gone when a shadow fell over him. His eyes widened when he saw the mountain of snow in the thunder god's hands. He and Natasha instinctively ducked behind the Tony and Clint as the giant snow boulder was hurled towards them—

"Thor, _no!"_

"I TOO LOVE YOU ALL!"

* * *

A/N: I think my writing style has changed again. For those of you who read my stories, it tends to happen often, so be aware! This story kept getting longer too; I don't know where Steve gets his playfulness from either, but obviously he was the one who put Thor up to it. Steve! Come on.

* Also, like I mentioned in the summary, I like to focus on Natasha and Clint, but sometimes those others stick their heads in, so it's really a gamble who the story will be about.

* Thanks for reading, commenting and following! It means a lot. I'll try to update more faithfully, but honestly, I can't promise anything…but I should have more stories done soon. As usual, I second guess my summary, so I may end up changing that...well. We'll see. Once again, thanks!


	3. Chapter 3

**Killing Time #3**

"Door secured. Please return at a later date."

"What? Come on, Tony, open up…"

Pepper Potts frowned at the door as she tried once more to use the biosensor to open the door leading into the Avenger's lab in the tower. The answer was the same, only this time the blonde woman could have sworn the AI sounded a little more patronizing.

"Door _secured._ Please return at a later date."

"You have a long wait ahead of you," a voice warned behind her. Pepper turned to see a slim, red-haired woman at the end of the room on her way to another room in the tower.

It had been a shock for Pepper at first to learn who Natasha Romanov really was, but since then the two had been on friendly terms. Still, it felt strange to see the former secretary/assassin calmly walking around Avenger's Tower. Natasha paused in the doorway to the next room, eyeing the door where Bruce and Tony had secreted themselves away on some project. "If you want, I could always get you in if you would rather not wait."

Pepper shook her head with a sigh. "No, I suppose I can talk to Tony about this another time." She looked at her watch, giving another sigh. "Or maybe in a few hours. I could use a break."

"From work?"

"From people," Pepper laughed, then looked embarrassed. "Not that I meant any of the Avengers—"

"Oh, I would have understand if you did. I get tired of them sometimes myself." Natasha started into the next room, Pepper following her out of curiosity. They entered a large indoor gym that was dominated by the large ring in the center of the room. Natasha climbed up into the ring as Pepper answered a beep on her phone, frowning as she replied to one of her many contacts with a rapid text message.

"Did you ever receive any special training?" asked Natasha suddenly, observing the stressed look on the other woman's face. Pepper looked up at the redhead, frowning uncertainly.

"What? Special training—?"

"Self-defense," Natasha clarified.

"A little," Pepper admitted as she slipped the phone back into her purse. "Tony was afraid—_worried_—that I wasn't adequately protected should anything happen again. He even wanted to make me a suit, but I refused."

"Well, then, I know you can pass the time," Natasha said. She started to do a few preliminary stretches as she continued to speak. "Did you want a lesson?"

"What? Here?" Pepper looked at the other room, and then back to Natasha, a look of surprise on her face. "Well, I mean, I'm not even dressed for fighting—"

"You can do anything when you are professional dressed," Natasha said calmly with a shrug of her shoulders. "Sometimes it'll give the wrong impression that you are defenseless. But that will work in your favor."

She gestured Pepper come into the ring. "It's a skill you should consider building upon, Ms. Potts."

"Beating the crap out of people?" Pepper laughed nervously. But, curiosity aroused as to what the Black Widow could show her—she slid off her shoes and climbed up to where Natasha stood, looking around the ring curiously. "Where do I begin?"

"We need someone first," Natasha said. She half turned her head, raising her voice. "Barton?"

Pepper turned her head, surprised to see Clint Barton, otherwise known as Hawkeye, was in the corner of the room, completing a set of pull-ups with his back to them. He did not respond to Natasha's call, and after a moment, Natasha bent down and picked up a stray glove someone had left in the ring. She tossed it at the archer, and he turned his head when it struck his foot.

"Huh?" He swung around on the bar to face them, still holding himself upright. He flashed a grin at Pepper.

"Hi," she said to him, raising a hand in hello.

"Hi there. Sorry, hearing aids are still out, Nat," he replied, still completing his set as he spoke. "Why? You need me?"

"If you want," Natasha signed while she spoke.

"All right. Give me a moment."

"There is so much about you guys I don't even know," Pepper murmured to herself. It almost made her wish she spent more time with them, but there was work to take care of, the whole business and the duties and responsibilities that came with running everything…handling Tony…

"Okay!" Clint's voice broke into her thoughts. He climbed into the ring, stopping to look at the two women, raising an eyebrow when he noted the nervous look on Pepper's face and the completely composed expression on Natasha's. "So…what are we practicing anyway, ladies?"

"Just a few simple self-defense movements," Natasha replied. "Sambo, most likely."

She turned to face Pepper as she and Clint took up stances against one another. "I'll demonstrate on Clint first—then I'll help you complete the move on him. Watch carefully. Clint, you start it off."

Clint made a grab for Natasha as though he was trying to take hold of her head and shoulders, but Natasha let him rather than fight, her right hand grabbing onto Clint's elbow while her left wrapped around the back of his head, preventing him from wrestling away. Taking a step forward, still grappling with him, she twisted suddenly, so her body was almost facing the same direction as his—and held tightly by her arms there was nothing he could do to stop himself from being controlled by her movements. She leaned forward quite a few inches, still holding onto his head and arm—and twisting her left shoulder suddenly to her right, made his feet leave the mat. His body slammed into the ground at her feet, leaving her standing over him with a grip on his arm, preventing him from coming back up.

"Now, you don't need to keep a hold on him at the end," Natasha said conversationally, still pinning him in place, "But he should still end up in a position like this."

"You want me to do that?" Pepper sounded doubtful. Natasha released Clint, who moved to now face the blonde woman, rolling his shoulder a little. "I don't know—that seemed—sort of complicated…"

"You'll be fine."

"But what will happen if I do it too quickly?"

"There's no such thing as too soon in a fight," Clint said with a playful grin. "Besides. I'm the man who's always ready, right, Nat?"

"We'll see," was all Natasha said. She looked now to Pepper, who was looking at Clint doubtfully, not making a move. She started to take a step forward to demonstrate how Pepper should move. "So what you do is—"

BAM!

Clint blinked in confusion, wondering how he ended up on the ground. He looked up at Pepper who was standing over him, his surprise mirrored on her face.

"I'm sorry! I—" Pepper looked from Clint's taken aback face to Natasha, conflicted by the approval and amusement she saw there. "I mean, was it good? Did I do it too soon?"

"There's no such thing as too soon in a fight," Natasha informed her lightly. "Isn't that right, Barton?"

He fixed her with a raised eye, but now it was his turn to look at Pepper admiringly. "You're even faster than Nat here when you put your mind to it," he said. "Where'd you learn to throw people like that?"

"You don't know the kind of people I need to deal with on a day to day basis," Pepper joked, even though amazement still showed on her face. "I didn't think I could do it!"

"Let's try another," Natasha suggested. She took up position in front of Clint again, the two moving into a clinch, still grappling with one another. It was almost the same as the other, except Natasha suddenly took a step into Clint's space, swinging her left leg behind his right leg. A twist of her upper torso, still cinching Clint too tightly to prevent him from fighting back, and she slammed him down hard into the mat underneath her, rolling neatly with him to end up with her trapping him yet another pin on the ground.

"You don't need to finish it with a pin," she said as she climbed to her feet easily. "But try to get him to the ground again. You aren't hurting too badly, are you, Barton?"

"I'm good," Barton returned, wincing slightly. Neither woman was holding back, were they? He moved to take up position opposite of Pepper, planning to put up more of a fight this time if she was determined to use her full strength again.

"Should I wait for a signal or something?" Pepper asked, looking to Natasha.

"No, just—" Clint started, but Pepper acted once his first word was out of his mouth.

"OOF!"

The whole world faded away. When it came back into focus, Clint was hyperaware of one feeling in his shoulder that had struck the ground first: PAIN. That, and the fact he was once more lying on his back.

"You did that harder than me," Natasha said approvingly to Pepper. "I'm impressed, Ms. Potts. He didn't even have time to react."

"Oh no! Did I do that? I DID?" Pepper looked embarrassed, and then amazement slowly came over her face. "I really did? Oh my god…that was…"

"Painful," Clint supplied from the ground.

"Amazing! I feel like a _badass_," Pepper murmured. She looked up, excitement shining on her face. "Let's do it again!"

Natasha smiled at the mock-horrified expression on Clint's face. She put out a hand to help him up. "Of course you can, Ms. Potts," she said with a smile. She lowered her voice as she helped Clint steady himself. "After all…you're the man who's always ready. Isn't that right, Barton?"

"Next time, she throws you," Clint returned. Once his feet he took a breath, moving back into position, muttering under his breath as he did so.

"After all, I'm not Cap. I can't do this all day."

* * *

"Whoa! I hope he isn't hurt—" Bruce Banner exclaimed.

He and Tony had finally exited their laboratory, and were now in one of the rooms overlooking the gym. The glass wall allowed them to view everything happening below, including Pepper demonstrating her newfound martial arts moves on Barton.

"Are you kidding?" Tony asked distractedly. "This is great!"

Bruce turned to see his friend was recording the whole thing on his phone.

"What—Tony, come on."

"Next time Birdman opens his mouth with some snarky comment about me getting kicked around I'm going to show him this. Damn. You know how great this would have been if Mr. America had been in there and Pepper did that?" He chuckled, and then sighed wistfully. "I'd have liked to have seen his star spangled butt kicked by Pepper on recording. You know what? I have an idea."

"Tony—"

"No, no, it's a good plan. You call him and we'll see if we can't make this a group thing."

"I don't think that's such a great idea…"

"You know what? You're right. He's not big enough. We'll call Thor."

Tony continued to film, his eyes glinting. "Jane is better…ha! Pepper is better."

* * *

A/N: If I messed anything up, please tell me; it's late and I don't like to proofread, a terrible combination…once again, thank you for following and reviewing.

* After hearing the 'Jane is better' line in AOU, I became convinced Tony and Thor probably had the argument about whose girlfriend was more successful going on since the moment they met.

* The types of moves Natasha is showing Pepper is, as mentioned above, Sambo, a type of martial arts that was prevalent in Soviet-era Russia, used extensively in Black Widow's fight scenes in the movies. Being thrown on a mat by one of those techniques is no joke!


	4. Chapter 4

**Killing Time # 4**

Hmmm….Hmm Hm…Hmm Hmm Hmm—

No, no that's not how it goes…

Hmmm…Hmm HM HMM…Hmm—

"Oh for crying out loud! Stop it, will you?"

Clint Barton lifted his head from the table, meeting the annoyed gaze of not only Tony Stark, but of, surprisingly enough, Steve Rogers as well. The archer leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head, a look of innocent on his face. The three of them were waiting in the Avengers Tower for their fellow Avengers to arrive so they could discuss a possible mission in Africa. Clint did not pay much attention to the details. All he was aware of was the crushing sense of boredom as they waited for their members to arrive from their various locations…a crushing sense of boredom that he had to do something about…and quick.

"What are you talking about?" he asked ingenuously, knowing exactly to what Tony Stark was referring.

"That humming! Whatever you can call _that._ What song is that anyway?" Tony demanded, folding his arms over his chest. Like Clint, he was not much for waiting, and the fact Steve Rogers could sit there so patiently simply staring out the window—probably preoccupied with a bird or something—was beginning to irk him.

What he was not to know was that Steve was not nearly as patient as he liked to pretend, and Clint's incessant humming had been steadily growing on his nerves as well. How Tony could sit there so calmly, not even with his phone for once, was still something to marvel upon.

"Do you think you could cut it out for awhile?" the super soldier asked, looking outside the window once more to see if the others were anywhere near arriving. Maybe I should stand outside and wait for them…no one said we needed to sit in here together.

And yet, none of them had moved from the table for the last thirty-four minutes.

"I wish I could," Clint lied with a shrug of his shoulders. "Left the TV on last night when I fell asleep and it's the strangest thing…I can't seem to get the song out of my head. I think it was 'Hop is the New Hip-Happiness'…something to do with a dancing frog, I think…"

"What?" Tony raised an eyebrow. He leaned towards Steve, lowering his voice to a stage whisper. "Uh, Rogers, make a note, we need drug-testing protocols for every Avenger—"

"Were you watching…cartoons?" Steve asked in confusion.

"Yeah, so what?"

"Just explains a lot of questions, that's all," Tony answered.

"Uh-huh." Clint sighed, and after a moment of more half-hearted humming, he jumped up, slamming his hands into the table, his chair falling over behind him. "All right, you've both convinced me. No more humming."

"Thank god," Steve murmured.

"I'll sing instead."

"I didn't know torture was something we had to endure in the safety of the Tower," Tony groaned. "Why don't you go outside and sing your heart out to the birds, Barton?"

"I think I like the acoustics in here," Clint replied.

"I'll make a note to have that rectified immediately."

"What? You guys are serious about not liking _singing?"_ Clint looked around in mock surprise. The genius and Mr. Muscles hardly seemed amused. "Well, that's something that needs to change. Hmm…nobody's around but the three of us. It'll be hours before the others arrive. Come on, come on, let's hear those pipes, gentlemen!"

"I don't really think that's such a good—" Steve started, but Clint waved his hand.

"Oh, come on! It's _singing_, for Christ's sake. We aren't breaking anything, or killing anyone, or giving each other bruises—it's just singing. A competition. Yep, that's what it's going to be. A singing competition between friends. One song apiece."

"I don't know any song lyrics from songs of today," Steve interrupted smoothly. "It wouldn't be fair." It was an excuse that could have worked, had Tony not decided to get involved.

"Oh, but he never said you had to sing songs from _this_ century, Rogers. I know big-band is more your style of music but you can't stand there and tell me you don't know the lyrics to _some_ song."

"So you're saying you're going to join the competition?" Steve demanded. Tony paused, but he did not back down.

"Yeah. Sure. Why not? It can't be worse than that one karaoke competition I got involved in… Sure, I'm in. You go first."

"What? Why should I?"

"Alphabetical order," Tony answered with a shrug of his shoulders. He swiveled his chair to face Clint. "Isn't that how these things usually work?"

"Why, I believe they do," Clint agreed with a grin.

"My last name is _Rogers—"_

"Your last name is America," Clint and Tony chirped together. Clint chuckled at the dismayed look on the normally stoic man's face. "So there we have it. You go first, Cap."

Steve seemed to consider their words. For a moment, it looked as if he was going to flat out refuse—and then he stood up, sighing.

"Well, there is one song that Agent Hill showed me from a few years back…but I can't sing!" he warned, shaking a finger at them. "I have no talent whatsoever, so don't expect too much."

"We won't judge," Clint answered. Tony gave him a look of mock surprise.

"That kind of takes the competition out of the competition, doesn't it?"

"Shhh."

Steve took a breath, opening his mouth—and closing it. He took a few more breaths—and repeated the process. He could feel a blush creeping up his neck under the gaze of Barton and Stark as the two waited for him to begin, Barton with his head propped up in one hand and Stark with both hands clasped on the table before him. Both wore surprisingly serious expressions, which was somehow incredibly off-putting. He shifted his feet, clearing his throat.

Fighting Nazis never seemed easier.

"Wait a moment…"

"Would it help if you imagined us naked?" Tony snickered.

"We can turn our backs and pretend we're listening to the radio," Clint joked. He and Tony shared a look, chuckling.

Steve gave them both a glare and took one last breath.

"Okay. Okay. Here I go."

He opened his mouth—

And shut it. Again.

"I'm sorry…did I miss the part where we're supposed to imagine you singing?" Tony asked.

"Well, I don't know if this song _counts_—" Steve began, but Clint was already shaking his head as he leaned back in his chair.

"Any song, from any time, from anywhere. Just sing!"

Steve took a deep breath, and without looking at either of them—began to sing. To say Clint and Tony were taken aback was an understatement.

Steve's deep, serious voice transformed into one of the most unexpectedly soft singing voices they had ever heard. It carried across all the subtle emotion behind the lyrics, reaching surprising depths when he hit certain notes that Clint and Tony would have sworn hours before Steve America Rogers would never have been able to achieve. They stared at him, mesmerized.

But it was not to last. Steve tapered off at the end of the verse, his voice quavering slightly, feeling unusually self-conscious. The other men were absolutely silent; that couldn't be good. There was going to be some kidding about this later on. He could take some ribbing, but they would probably tell the others, make into a big thing. Why hadn't he thought of that earlier? Jesus. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea—

A new voice broke the silence, carrying on where the first left off.

This voice was husky and held a slight warble, and even though naturally low in pitch when the singer first unabashedly sang at the top of his lungs, he could make it climb to a higher pitch with obvious ease.

Steve turned in surprise to see Clint Barton had climbed up onto the table, hand clenched around an imaginary microphone as he joined in with a surprising amount of gusto. At the end of his verse, he shot Steve a friendly smile. "Sorry. Guess it's not much of a competition now," he said, and his smile grew into a grin when he saw the relief that came to Steve's face now that the attention was off him.

He and Steve found themselves looking at Tony Stark. The dark-haired man was leaning back in his chair, an amused if not bemused look on his face as he looked from Steve to Clint, still trying to process the two rapid succession shocks in his head.

"I don't know where this is going, or if I'm being pranked—but if I see any portion of this on Youtube, I get to be the cool one in our Avengers boy band," he said. Then, before either could answer, he stood—and to their everlasting astonishment—joined in.

* * *

"I mean, should we tell them we're here?" Hill asked Natasha, Bruce and Thor.

The screen on the Quinjet connected them directly to the Avenger's meeting room, allowing the four to see everything happening, including the singing session and impromptu dance session that seemed to be accompanying the first. And, until the screen in the Avenger Tower room was turned on, the visual and audio feed would continue to only go one way.

They had landed on the Tower three minutes ago, and Hill had turned on the screen to tell the others they had arrived early, only to be startled into inaction by what she saw. Since then, the four simply sat there watching, unable to tear their eyes away.

"They could have been skilled skalds," Thor remarked, then he paused with a frown. "…Are they?"

"Not unless they moonlight," Natasha murmured. She heard Clint sing before, but Steve had come as a surprise.

The rough, hoarse singing voice of Tony Stark came over the sound system, sounding nothing like his speaking voice. If ever Tony decided to abandon saving lives as Iron Man, he probably could have considered releasing a rock album, and people would buy it.

"Did you know he could sing like that?" Bruce asked in confusion. "Steve I mean, not Tony. Well maybe I do mean him…and Barton. Have they always been able to sing I never noticed?"

"If they have…then they have hidden their talents very well," Thor remarked. "Perhaps they often make a habit of singing together when we are not present?"

"Let's give them a few minutes," Hill said, shutting off the feed at last. They sat there in the awkward silence that fell, looking at where the screen had been.

"For how long?" Bruce asked after a moment. When nobody answered him, he sat back down behind the seats where he had been previously. "Maybe _we_ should kill time singing…"

* * *

A/N: The song I first imagined they are singing was Michael Bublé – Feeling Good; normally I would have put a few lines to show just exactly what they were singing, but I decided, heck, if you know a good song that could fit, listen to what you will! That, and song lyrics are copyrighted and you cannot put them in fanfics, so…well, yeah…

* For those who may not have known, a skald is a Scandinavian poet, usually one that performed in courts and recites epic poetry.


	5. Chapter 5

**Killing Time # 5**

_ At least an hour before they get back…check…_

_ Wide open space, but secluded enough…check_

_ Nobody here that'll report on what I am doing…check!_

He picked up the blanket he had kept rolled up in the back of the truck if just such an occasion ever arose and moved away from the vehicle, glancing at the black-clad redhead as he passed. She was leaning against the front end of the vehicle, completely unperturbed although minutes earlier they had been caught in a firefight, a literal fire, and had been forced to face off against numerous Hydra agents hyped on drugs. She was simply patiently waiting for the others to return from the mission.

He knew better than to hope it would be any time soon.

He glanced around casually to make sure nobody else was around besides the two of them, and then whipped out the blanket he had tucked under one arm, spreading it in one smooth motion on the grassy ground. He pulled off his quiver, tossed it to the side within arm's reach, and put his bow alongside it.

Natasha Romanova watched each movement Clint Barton made, her face expressionless. Why did he walk over to that small field and put down a blanket? She glanced around casually, suddenly wary, wondering if he was trying in some odd way to alert her to something having gone wrong with the mission.

Agent Coulson and the three other agents they came with were supposed to come back after checking out the Hydra science station for any further information—had something gone wrong?

But after looking around the abandoned grounds by the giant factory Hydra had been using as cover, she determined there was no current threat facing them. Everyone hostile there had already been eliminated, and she sensed nothing amiss.

Barton was just smoothing out his blanket over the grass, shooing away a purple butterfly that seemed interested in what he was doing. She already knew Barton was unlike every other person she'd worked with in their bloody occupation, and knew better than to ask him what he was doing, because he had that odd ability to involve people in his random schemes—but all the same she couldn't stop herself.

"What are you doing, Barton?" she asked.

"What does it look like, Romanova?" he asked. He sat down on the blanket, patting the spot beside him. "You wanna sit, too?"

She narrowed her eyes at his suggestion. "No."

He shrugged. "Suit yourself." He flopped down on his back, hands clasped under his head. "They'll take forever to finish up, though."

At first, she thought he was going to take a nap, but he was simply staring up at the clouds, humming a song to himself. She frowned inwardly, even though her face remained impassive. They were nearing the end of a mission, about to return to their base and debrief to Director Fury—and he decided it was the perfect time to lie down to watch the clouds pass by without a care in the world.

"Look! That one's shaped like a lion. Come on, join me!"

…And _this_ was the man who once had the upper hand on the Black Widow.

He pointed up to the cloud in question and glanced at her, to find she was just watching him with that same inexpressive countenance she usually wore when not playing a part for a mission. It was impossible to tell what was going through her head, but her next words summed it up for him.

"If you think I'm going to waste my time staring at clouds, you're mistaken."

"It's fun if you give it a chance~" he sang. He noticed a scowl come to her face and chuckled, turning to look back at the sky. "See, this is why you're going to end up with a stick up your—"

"_Barton."_

"—fine. Like Coulson. _He_ doesn't have fun either, unless it involves a Captain America theme park. I bought him a coloring book about the guy once and he was just like a kid in a candy store. Never saw someone use up so much blue crayons…"

"…You bought Agent Coulson a coloring book?" she asked despite herself.

"Yeah. Thank god Hill was willing to trade with me when she got his name for the Christmas raffle. It would have looked weird to give it to Fury."

She snorted in amusement despite herself.

He smiled at the sound, eyes scanning the clouds for anything of interest. After a minute of silence, his smile since faded, he spoke again, his voice low. "I mean it though, about not having any fun when you can… The last thing you want to become is a tool for the job. Trust me, Natasha."

She was silent for a long time. He thought for a moment she had left, and he wondered if he had been a little too forward calling her by her first name. Then he smiled when she flopped down beside him, staring up at the sky with him.

They shared a comfortable silence between them, neither feeling the need to speak. She relaxed—as much as she could when on the field—and found that it was, surprisingly enough, actually enjoyable to lay there looking at the clouds with the archer.

"If only Coulson _was_ here," she said suddenly.

A bark of laughter escaped Barton and he turned his head, still smiling at the very thought of the agent lying between them watching the world go by. "Why?" he asked her.

She pointed up at the sky.

"That cloud is the exact image of Captain America."

* * *

Coulson smiled to himself as he listened to them talk, just out of sight behind the truck. He leaned against it, arms folded as he eavesdropped. Maybe the growing friendship between Barton and Romanova would help dispel doubts about her loyalty to the rest of SHIELD.

Fury had thought it…'unwise', when Barton first brought back the Russian agent. But Coulson reserved judgment, trying to figure out what exactly Barton saw in Romanova, and whether or not it would work in the long run to keep her around.

He was beginning to think he had his answer.

"_That cloud is the exact image of Captain America."_

At her words, he looked up, starting in surprise when he saw it.

Jesus Christ!

It really _was_ shaped like Captain America.

* * *

A/N: Hey, sorry it took so long to finally add a new chapter…

By the way, these were originally going to be in chronological order, but now I'm thinking they probably won't be...just a heads up.


	6. Chapter 6

**Killing Time # 6**

This was it.

One chance—win or fail, it would be over either way—

He tensed, waiting for the proper moment—and pounced!

"AAAAAHHHHGHHH! Agh! God! Barton, what's wrong with you?!" Sam Wilson looked down at his dark grey shirt, now dripping with latte. He looked up accusingly at Clint Barton, who stood in the doorway of the meeting room with a sheepish look on his face as he lowered his arms.

"Oops. Sorry about that. I thought you were Tony."

"Stark doesn't even come to these meetings anymore," Wilson said. Barton shrugged innocently at the reproachful tone. "And come to think of it, neither do you. Your file said you retired. What happened?"

"Yeah, well, it's convenient to wait here for Natasha. She's going to visit with me for a bit so I thought I'd pick her up. What are you doing here?"

"Waiting for Steve. We _were_ going to train…" Wilson attempted to wipe off most of the liquid on his shirt, but he already knew it was not going to do any good. Great, now he would have to drop off by the locker rooms and change his shirt…with Barton around waiting to pop out of doorways, it would probably be too risky to get himself another drink.

"Yeah, I can guess why…"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, nothing…" Barton took a step back into the room, walking around the table in the center of the room where Falcon's compact wings, otherwise known as the EXO-7 Falcon, was currently waiting. "I guess that explains the wings on the table. Shouldn't you know better than to leave them lying around?"

"This is our own headquarters," Wilson said, stepping into the room, eyeing Barton warily when he was standing so close to his precious baby. "If they aren't safe here I don't know where they would be."

"I'm just saying you shouldn't leave your equipment lying around."

"You're one to talk. I've heard stories of where you've forgotten your bow."

Barton scowled. "She likes to exaggerate."

"Yeah, that's the impression I had when I met the Black Widow," Wilson said sarcastically. "There goes someone who likes to tell tall tales."

"How hard is it fly one of these things, anyway?" Barton asked, ignoring Wilson's comment as he leaned on the table to examine the compact wings closer. He had been a little jealous and curious of Wilson after Natasha Romanova told him about some of the amazing things he had been able to do. She had sounded impressed when she spoke about Falcon, and Barton understood once he saw the footage she provided to him of Falcon's impressive background. But that didn't stop him from poking a little fun at the new Avenger. He started to reach out to touch the EXO-7, but Wilson batted his hand away.

"It takes years of practice in order to pilot this properly without crashing into the nearest wall," Wilson said stiffly. "You think just anyone can put these on and instantly fly around?"

Barton looked the EXO-7 critically, and then finally shrugged. "You're probably right. I try those things on, I'd probably never make it off the ground and fly like you…"

Wilson nodded his head smugly.

"…Because you're a WAY smaller build than I am. It's probably built to carry around featherweights, huh?"

"I don't know if you've looked in a mirror recently, but it's not muscle you have built up on that frame of yours," Wilson said sharply as he pulled the EXO-7 towards himself. "Those of us who train regularly like to call it excess fat. Retirement get the best of you?"

"Listen, Featherweight—"

"Falcon, Hamster."

"Tch, that's not even a bird!"

"I tried to think of an animal as near to your shape as I could," Wilson replied. "Fat, small, _flightless_."

Barton scowled at him as he sat down in one of the chairs, folding his arms, trying and failing to think of an effective comeback. As Wilson turned to leave and change out of his still wet shirt, he noticed the bow and quiver lying on one of the chairs near Barton. Odd that he would have his weapon of choice with him if he only wanted to pick up Natasha. Wilson couldn't resist pointing them out.

"Going to the range for practice?" he asked. "Guess I was right about retirement."

"Huh." Barton reached over and picked up his bow and one of the arrows. He drew back an arrow with obvious ease, taking aim at some invisible target. "Not that it's any of your business, but I'm going to give this one to a friend."

"Looks pretty easy to use one of those things," Wilson remarked, even though he knew perfectly well how difficult the strongest of men found it to draw Barton's bow. Even Steve Rogers once told him how strong the archer had to be to draw the bow, having had the chance to use it once on a mission. In fact, there were many times Steve mentioned how skilled the archer was, but Wilson also heard tell of how brash the archer could be if he wanted. Maybe it was time to take him down a peg or two… "You giving the bow to a kid then?"

"It's a two-hundred pound draw," Barton snapped. "It's a little weaker than the one I use. You want to see if you can pull back an inch?"

"Me?" Wilson shook his head after a moment. Barton smirked. "…If it's weaker than the one you use…and knowing my strength…it's not a good idea."

"Uh-huh."

"After all, I'd probably just break it."

"What?" Barton lessened the tension of the bowstring, giving Falcon a critical look. "You? Yeah right! Maybe you misunderstand me, pal. To draw a bow it takes a certain amount of upper shoulder and back muscles that I can tell just by looking you don't have—"

"What, you seriously think you're stronger than me?"

"Was I supposed to keep that fact a secret?"

"Arm wrestle, right now," Wilson challenged, deciding to put an end Barton's boasting once in for all. Barton raised an eyebrow as he put down the bow, and then he swept papers and folders off the table dramatically as he took up position, one arm on the table at the ready. Hopefully those papers didn't belong to anyone important, Barton thought. Wilson gave the fallen papers a critical look, and frowned, remembering he still had coffee all over his shirt. But he couldn't back down now, not when he had a chance to wipe that smirk off Barton's face.

"Let's see what you've got, Featherweight."

"Falcon," Wilson bit out as he took the seat across, clasping Barton's hand. "It's still Falcon, Hamster."

"Whatever. One…two…THREE!"

They both strained to push the other person's hand to the table, glowering at one another as they did so. Their attention only went to their hands when Barton's began to slip down a few inches, Falcon exerting as much pressure as he could to bend the arm further down—just—one inch more—

"No!" Barton said breathlessly, struggling to bring his hand back up. If he lost, he knew he'd never hear the end of it!

A frown grew on Wilson's face as Barton struggled to push his hand back up, actually managing to do so. He brought them back to the center of the table and then started to push down a few inches on Wilson's side—

"Crap," Wilson grunted. He couldn't lose to the loudmouth! He'd never hear the end of it!

Barton tried to press his hand down the last few inches but Wilson managed to bring his hand back to the center. They continued to struggle, but were failing to make the other waver. It passed about two minutes of them just struggling to make the other lose, their previous engagements completely forgotten.

"Will you just give up already?" Barton gritted out.

"No," Wilson growled.

"Featherweight!"

"Hamster!"

* * *

"There he goes again, making friends," she whispered.

"What's that stain on Sam's shirt?" he whispered back. She shrugged.

The redhead and blond were standing by the open doorway, looking in the meeting room of the Avengers Compound with matching looks of amusement on their faces as they watched the arm wrestling match remain in its permanent state of a tie, both contestants stubbornly refusing to be the first to break down. They had both winced when they saw Maria Hill's papers knocked to the ground by Barton, but instead of intervening had watched with interest to see what would happen.

"He won't give up, you know."

"Neither will Sam." Steve Rogers smiled to himself, thinking about everything he had been through with his friend. Sam Wilson wasn't the type to back down; everything about his expression as he arm-wrestled Clint Barton only cemented this fact in Steve's mind. "He'll win, you know."

"Ppht." Natasha shook her head as she watched the familiar look of stubbornness grow on Clint's face. "If that happens, you can expect a rematch. Hmm. You know what this reminds me of? When you challenged Thor to arm wrestling for the first time…"

"How was I supposed to know Asgardian arm wrestling just involved tying one arm behind your back and grappling the other person to the ground?"

"I knew."

"Yeah, you can stop rubbing it in our faces that you're the reigning champion, all right?"

She smiled, nudging him again when it looked as if Sam was getting the upper hand. There was muffled cursing from Barton, and then a meaty thud.

"OW!"

"Ha!"

"No way! You cheated! Rematch!"

"Are you serious, Barton?"

"All four of us might as well eat together before heading out," she commented, nudging Steve's side before she began to slip away. "It's already getting late and it looks like it may be a long night."

"Yeah. We can pick up something in the kitchens. And hey, let's not forget to pick up some bread crumbs."

She gave him a curious look. Steve looked at her innocently.

"Those two birds of ours'll probably be hungry after all that hard work."

* * *

A/N: In the comics, Hawkeye and Falcon did not get along, as Falcon replaced Hawkeye on the Avenger's lineup. I expected to see something in the films acknowledging this dislike, but…nope.


	7. Chapter 7

**Killing Time # 7**

_Do you want whiter teeth? Do you want to know what toothpaste is approved by not eight, but—_

Flip.

_ For the simple down payment of 13.99 the very elegant and chic double-checked completely water resistant shower curtains could be yours within the next—_

"_Nyet_," the redheaded woman whispered aloud to herself as she tossed the magazine down on the small table in the center of the room and slumped a few more inches into the couch. She looked up at the clock above the broken television across from where she sat and frowned.

Five hours. Five hours since she and her partner had arrived to the small safe house with orders to meet with Agent Hill. The agent was supposed to be there ten minutes after Natasha Romanova and Clint Barton arrived, but a traffic jam outside the city had different ideas, and she had been delayed. And, because of a certain "incident" at their last safe house, Director Fury had forbidden them from stepping outside until her arrival.

Natasha would always maintain the fire had been _Barton's _fault, though.

"Aaghh…that's heavy…who puts mixing bowls on the top shelf? And who decided to furnish this place, anyway? 'Yeah, a guy just broke in with a machine pistol; did you make sure to put mixing bowls in the kitchen?' Don't have a decent fork but you manage a bowl…and that oven…sheesh, what's with the little knobs? What do they even do? Which one is the degrees?"

She looked over her shoulder at the muttering coming from the kitchen, seeing the man who started the infamous apartment fire standing precariously on a chair and the countertop as he peered into the top shelf of a cupboard.

As usual, unable to sit still, Clint Barton had begun to tear the place to which he was confined apart. He had a clear mixing bowl under one arm and a rolling pin under the other. By the looks of things, he had pulled every single thing out that he possibly could from each cupboard and left them scattered around on the small table and countertops in the kitchen.

He turned suddenly to look at her, his head tilted inquiringly, raising his hands to sign to her. "Mint chocolate or chocolate…" Something slipped from under his arm and shattered on the floor. He tsked, signing, "Never mind, looks like it's just going to be chocolate…"

"You know better than to play around in the kitchen without an adult supervisor present, Barton," she signed back to him, rising from her seat to investigate what he was doing. He spoke and signed back to her.

"Hey, that fire wasn't my fault! _No matter what you tell Fury_…and I'm _dying_ in here! I need to do something. How did you manage to make that one magazine last so long, anyway? One look at those 'playful adult rompers' and I wanted to burn my eyes out…"

"Oh, you saw those? Guess I'll need to find you a new Christmas present, then."

"Haha! Ohhh, you had better be joking…" He said aloud, handed the rolling pin and bowl down to her when she entered before climbing down from the countertop. She looked at the objects inquiringly, glancing at one of the countertops nearby, which she now saw was not just covered in random junk—there was flour, sugar, spices, butter…

An uneasy feeling came over her, and she spoke now that she was closer. The battery in one of his hearing aids had failed and the other was close to failing, but now that she was closer, it would easier to talk than sign. "…What are you planning on doing with these?"

"Bake, what else?" he said. She winced and he brandished a mixing spoon at her. "Hey, don't give me that look! I've read a cookbook since then, okay?" He shuddered. "…This time I'm stay as far away from tomatoes as possible."

"Just because you can read a cookbook doesn't mean you'll instantly know how to bake. That's like saying someone could memorize the entire flight manual for a Tupolev TU-22 and know how to pilot it safely."

He looked at her meaningfully. She frowned.

"Well, that was a bad example. It wasn't exactly a smooth landing, anyway."

He snorted and took the bowl and rolling pin from her, shoving them onto the counter alongside his other assortment of kitchen equipment. He rubbed his hands together as he looked over everything, double-checking that he had everything he needed. Tch, baking couldn't be that hard. But it certainly looked daunting. He hesitated.

"Hey Nat…"

"What?" she asked warily, leaning against the countertop with her hands in her pockets. He was beginning to get that suspicious puppy-dog look in his eye…

"You wanna help me?"

"Bake cookies with you when we're supposed to be waiting for Hill so we can finish our mission?" she said, raising an eyebrow at him. "…They had better be very good cookies, Clint."

He grinned at her, and moved aside for her to join him in front of the mixing bowl. They made a few dubious decisions, especially regarding all-purpose flour and bread flour, which looked the same, the amount of salt—because one teaspoon looked very small—and then there was the very interesting question of whether not to add baking soda, baking powder, or yeast.

"To yeast, or not to yeast, that is the question," he said when they examined the three rising agents. "One of these days I'll have to read another cookbook…I mean, I know it's not yeast, but what's the difference between the other two?"

"Maybe they're the same?" she suggested, selecting a random one, peering inside the container.

"Almost makes we wish we knew someone who has experience with this sort of thing," he muttered, pulling his phone out of his pocket. "Maybe Hill knows a thing or two. Let's call her and see—she's stuck in traffic anyway, not like she's busy—"

"I wonder if Stark knows anything about baking," she commented idly. "Billionaire, playboy, philanthropist, part-time baker…"

"I dare you to call him!" he said at once, offering her the phone with a grin. She smiled and shook her head, although it was incredibly tempting to do as he suggested. She plucked the phone out of his hand and slid it into her own pocket.

"I think we can handle this, Clint."

"Sure we can," he said, glancing down into the bowl. It was not looking pretty so far. "…And when it turns out we can't handle it, then we'll call them."

"Deal."

They pressed onwards with their odd creation, adding whatever seemed right or whatever spice just happened to smell good. By the time they were finished mixing, it hardly looked like cookie dough at all.

"I guess the rolling pin is out, then," he said, nudging the bowl with his hand. "…Sort of…chocolate concrete looking, isn't it?"

She wanted to argue with him, but after staring at the mixture in the bowl, she was inclined to agree. The horrible mess inside was not exactly looking appealing, but there was the slim possibly it would look much better once it was cooked.

A very, very slim possibility.

And ten minutes after they put the offensive little circles they dropped onto the cookie sheet into the oven, they knew better. There was the distinct…_smell_ to them, but Barton gamely picked one up after letting it cool for about two seconds and took a bite.

"…Er—not—" He coughed, looking around as if he wanted to spit it out, and then swallowed it with difficulty. "Not the best."

She frowned, took what was left of the cookie from his hand, snapped off part of it and popped it into her mouth. There was the instant taste of chocolate and salt, and some odd, sour chemical taste that overran everything else. She spat it out before it had time to linger on her tongue. They looked at one another.

"I think it's time to call Stark," she said.

* * *

"I don't mean to sound like an idiot, sir, but…are you sure those two are the infamous Black Widow and Hawkeye?"

The two Hydra agents on the building rooftop across from the apartment looked at one another, and then back through their respective binoculars. Two windows gave them a view into the kitchen, and everything they had seen thus far only seemed to confirm they had been given the wrong intelligence.

They watched as the redheaded woman took the cookie sheet and hurled the contents out of the window before leaning nonchalantly against the counter by the time the man turned back. He looked at her questioningly when he saw the empty cookie sheet, but she simply shrugged and pulled out a phone from her pocket. A smile came to his face. She dialed a number and they both put their heads together as they listened to whomever it was they called.

After a moment, the woman said something to the phone, and almost at once, the man started laughing.

"Honestly?" one of the Hydra agents said disgustedly as he lowered his binoculars. The Black Widow making prank calls? Tch. "I don't think that could _possibly_ be them. Let's go…the intel must have been corrupted somehow."

They quietly and quickly packed up surveillance gear they never had a chance to use and their binoculars into a single duffle bag that one of the men carried over his shoulder. They went back into the building, going down the stairs that would take them to the ground floor.

"I know where they went wrong," the man carrying the bag said suddenly.

"What? Who?" his partner asked in confusion.

"Those two people," the man said, gesturing in the direction of the apartment building. He shook his head to himself. "Too much baking soda. It'll get you every time."

* * *

A/N: After thinking about it, it just seemed logical that out of all the Avengers, they would know nothing about baking. When do they have the time? (I maintain they were the ones who taught Vision how to cook, which is why he is not good at it at all) …

And people who are deaf make a lot of noise, by the way. They will slam things around, drop things, knock into things, talk under their breath (mostly those who were deafened later in life), and make a general ruckus.


End file.
